


some can stay

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A little, A little prose-y a little musey, Angst, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Falling Out of Love, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Love at First Sight, M/M, Post-Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Sad, Sex, also historically based, but it's vague, there's actually plot holy shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: "At some point you have to realize that some people can stay in your heart and not in your life."Some people can stay. Alexander is not one of them.





	some can stay

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few chapters of this typed up. It's ongoing, even if it might be slowgoing...

  
He feels a tug on his sleeve, a hand on his arm. Aaron turns from his place at the bar, the documents scattered across its surface momentarily forgotten. He reaches beside him with one hand, not quite looking as he pushes them into a pile. He concerns himself more now with the man standing behind him. Or rather, the man's chest. He's wearing a dark brown coat and a white shirt. He smells like salt and the sea and ash, if Aaron really thinks about it. One hand is at his side, his fingers loosely curled up, brushing against the seam of his trousers. The other lingers still in the air, hovering just above Aaron's shoulder. He's a writer, and Aaron can tell. He can see it in his fingers. The tips are calloused, just barely, and there are smears of ink on his palm, smears that are probably worked deep into the skin. He's a writer, and because he smells like salt and the sea and there is a leather bag across his shoulder, he must be new, must have come straight from the ship. But the scent of ash, Aaron cannot quite place.

  
He decides all of this before he is fully turned around, and once he is, he decides the person in front of him is little more than a boy. His face is open, his eyes wide, and he looks hopeful. Aaron can see it, the little shimmer just behind the pupil. He is a writer, a young one; he is optimistic. New. Aaron gets the feeling he likes to talk, a feeling he cannot quite place. Something in his stomach reaches up and wraps around his heart and Aaron Burr is seized with a sense of knowing, of belonging. He feels like he's met this boy before.

  
The boy - who in actuality could not be more than a year or so older than Aaron himself, but he is a boy because his eyes are not world- and word-weary like Aaron's - opens his mouth, and his lips are soft and pink and new. "Pardon me," he says, and he is new, because that accent is not from New York. Aaron would have to place him somewhere far away. "Are you Aaron Burr, sir?"

  
Aaron smiles, barely, because that is what Aaron Burr does. He smiles. "That depends," he says, rising from his stool, and he figures out that the the tip of his head comes to the boy's nose. "Who's asking?" The boy chatters on again, his eyes never loosing that sense of wonder. "Oh, well, sure, sir," the boy says, this foreign boy who still dreams lightly and softly and well. "I'm Alexander Hamilton, I'm at your service, sir. I have been looking for you."

  
_I'm getting nervous_ , Aaron thinks, but it isn't because the fact that this boy - Alexander - knows who he is. It is because when he extends his hand to Aaron, Aaron takes it.

  
He takes it, and he smiles.

  
\---

  
Aaron asks to buy him a drink. He isn't sure why he does this. He has not had a drink like this, a drink that he asks for, in quite a long time, if ever. He has had drinks, sure. Drinks in the parlors of rich men, their wives and servants bringing in tea in china cups and whiskey in glass tumblers. He has drinks in the bars, speaking low with the man behind the counter. He has had drinks over files sprinkled across the tabletop in front of him, like when the boy arrived. But drinks are always either over business or he is alone working on business. But when the boy speaks to him? Aaron asks him to stay.

  
It is uncharacteristic of him, but he does not stop to question why. He waits cautiously, he lies in wait, but he asks the boy if he could buy him a drink.

  
They talk while they drink. Well, they talk is a bit of an over-exaggeration. It is more like Alexander talks and Aaron listens. Neither of them mind it, though. Alexander tells him a story over their first beer together, Aaron's third of the night. He tells him about how he came to know Aaron's name. America called him, he says, and he went to Princeton. He wanted to graduate in 2 years instead of the standard 4, and his ambition makes Aaron smile again. "I wanted to graduate fast, so I talked to the bursar, you know?" Alexander says. "I... Aw, man," Alexander continues, and he grins, shoots back another mug of beer, and slaps his leg. "I admired you. I wanted to do what you did, graduate and join the revolution. I wanted to _be_ you."

  
Aaron is still smiling. It is something he does, but it is so often forced. This time, he smiles. Really smiles.

  
"So, how'd you do it?" Alexander asks curiously, leaning forward. "How'd you graduate so fast?" Before he answers, he looks up, makes eye contact with the bartender. He nods slightly and the man brings him two more glasses. He takes a sip, slow and careful and restrained, to Alexander's giddy, noisy gulps. Aaron answers then, simply, quickly. "It was my parents' dying wish before they passed," he says shortly.

  
Alexander's eyes widen. "You're an orphan!" he crows happily. He has the decency to shrink a little when he receives a few dirty looks from the other patrons. "Sorry," he says politely, and Aaron almost laughs. His drinking companion directs his attention back to Aaron, his wide, dark, soulful eyes flickering with intensity. "I mean, just... Wow! I'm an orphan, too!" Alexander looks so delighted at this shared characteristic, Aaron thinks, drumming his fingers against his mug as he takes another sip.

  
Even though he starts drinking before Alexander arrives - perhaps more like barges - into Aaron's life, Alexander quickly surpasses him. Aaron learns very quickly that he is so prone to movement. He always has something in his hands and he is always talking. 

  
"God," Alexander says, pushing his fingers through the unruly tangle of hair on his hand. "I wish there was a war. Then we could prove that we're worth more than anyone bargained for."  
Aaron thinks they already are, but he does not speak. He takes another drink, looks Alexander up and down, and he waits.

  
\---

  
They drink, and Aaron is having - dare he say? - fun with this boy, this 20-something child who still sees hope. He doesn't feel bad about calling him a child even though he is older than Aaron himself, because he still looks hopeful, still has that child-like gleam in his eyes that Aaron has long since lost. He has fun not needing to speak until Alexander says something out of the blue. "You strike me," he says, but he stops and takes another drink from his mug. "As..." He frowns at Aaron, almost as if he sizes him up where they sit. "As if you've never been satisfied." Aaron doesn't speak, just raises an eyebrow a little. Alexander shakes his head and carries on.

  
"You don't talk," he says. "Well, you do. But not a lot. You don't talk, but you have something..." Alexander plasters his palm flat against his own heart, and Aaron - _don't think such things, don't think such things, don't think such things_ , his mind tells him - wonders what that heart would feel like under his own hand. "You have something in here. Something that's like what I have in mine, sir. I cannot quite place it, but there's something in you. You... You pretend you don't, but you want things, perhaps even more deeply than I do. You want things. And you aren't satisfied without them, but you're scared to go without them. You're like me. I'm never satisfied."

  
Aaron's breath catches in his throat and he can't pull his eyes from Alexander's face. How does he know that from just a few hours of knowing Aaron? And how does Aaron answer that? For once in his life, he is struck dumb, and he responds only with, "Please. Aaron is just fine."

  
\---

  
"Could I offer you some free advice?" Aaron says, hesitantly, cautiously. He glances Alexander up and down, almost like he's sizing him up again, but it has been so long since he has felt a lover's touch that he is imagining what Alexander's hands would feel like pressed up against his chest, his nails raking down Aaron's back, that quick-witted voice whispering sweet things in Aaron's ear.

  
Alexander throws his next beer back, eagerly leaning forward on his bar stool. His legs are spread, his feet propped up on bars connected the four legs of his seat, his palms on the seat in front of him. He almost slips, and Aaron smiles again. He couldn't hold his beer like Aaron does. He expects that much. "Talk less," he says, inclining his head slightly, and Alexander tilts his head, confused. "Huh?" he says, and Aaron continues. "Smile more." Alexander pouts a little, before he says, "Ha." Like he doesn't believe Aaron at all. "Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for," he says, and Alexander shakes his head. "No way," he says. "You can't be serious, sir." Aaron inclines his head slightly and Alexander amends. "Aaron."

  
"You want to get ahead?" he says, and Alexander nods, and there's that light in his eyes again. "Yes," he breathes, and Aaron wants to feel that breath against his skin.

  
\--- 

  
"We ought to get out of here," Aaron says after a few moments. The crowd in the bar seems to be thinning out, and the bartender keeps eyeing them, clearly wanting to go home for the evening. Perhaps he has a wife, a child, someone else waiting for him. No, Aaron knows this man without even needing to speak to him. He is married, but he isn't wearing his ring. Aaron can tell from the discoloration of the skin where the ring ought to be. He's married, but he's spending the night in someone else's bed.

  
Alexander looks around, frowning, as if he's just realized that they are nearly alone. "Most likely," he says, and his shoulders slump and he deflates a little. It almost breaks Aaron's heart. Almost, but not quite. Alexander is getting there.

  
Aaron gathers his papers, shoving them into the bag at his side, and approached the exit after sliding the bartender a coin. Alexander trails after him, looking like a lost, stray dog or perhaps someone much younger than he actually is. He very nearly clicks his heels together as scurries ahead to push the door open for Aaron, holding it while dramatically bowing as Aaron passes. He smiles, laughs a little. He can't help it. Then Alexander steps away from the door and it shuts behind them.

  
They are alone in the relative darkness, for the streets are empty. Aaron doesn't know what time it is, but it's late, surely. He sees naught in the sky but the moon and the stars. When he gazes into Alexander's eyes, however, he sees a different sort of stars. Standing there for a good long while, neither of them say anything. It as Aaron Burr who breaks the silence. "I should be heading home," his lips say, but his heart says _come with me_ , his eyes say _come with me_. "It was nice meeting you."

  
That much is not a lie. That much is the truth.

  
Alexander shuffles his feet, gazing over at Burr. "I'm staying with someone," he says, and then pauses before he continues. "But I'm sure he wouldn't miss me if I happened to not come home this evening." There is a very pregnant pause after he says this; is he offering what Aaron thinks he is? Surely he isn't. He can't be. It's dangerous to be such a person in these times. Aaron knows. He still bears a scar on his back from when he was a boy. He knows very well what can happen if a man is caught desiring another man. "Alexander," he says softly.

The hopeful boy shakes his head slightly.  
"I saw the way you looked at me," he says. "I'm not that drunk. And don't worry, I won't tell." He grins and winks, a twinkle in his eye, and long-dormant birds flutter into wakefulness in Aaron's heart. "Talk less."

  
\---

  
Aaron doesn't recall ending up in the alley, but there they are. Aaron's back is pressed right up against the brick, the texture grating on his skin even through his shirt. But he doesn't care and neither does Alexander as he rips the buttons apart, kissing Aaron's neck, sucking on his collarbone, going lower and lower, moaning and meaning, every gesture, every noise has meaning. God, the noise is music to Aaron's ears.

  
"Be careful, Alexander," Aaron whispers throatily. "Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead."

  
\---

  
This is not the only time they do this. This is not the only time they meet. It can't be, because Aaron... Well, he senses something in the boy, something he can't explain. He feels he is entwined with this boy, even those he knows he should stop calling him 'boy' in his head. (He learns that Alexander is 21 to Aaron's 20. He isn't a boy. He is an adult, more grown than Aaron himself.)

  
They meet again, and again. It is in the same bar a week later, a week after that, a week after that... They meet and meet and they can't stop meeting, and every meeting involves Aaron against a brick wall, a table in a locked room, the back of a door in the safety of one of their homes, Alexander licking and kissing and panting and moaning and screaming Aaron's name, and Aaron has to remind him that they must be quiet. Their trysts must remain secret. No one must know. No one must know. No one must know...

  
Aaron hopes no one knows. He doesn't want this to stop. If someone finds out, they would have to stop, and Aaron does not want to stop. He feels so guilty when he thinks of these encounters later, but in the moment, he has never felt better. He knows in the back of his mind this can not last, this is unsustainable, but he wants it to stay. He wants his hand on Alexander's heart, their nails dragging down each other's backs, wants Alexander's breath in his ear, whispering, begging, pleading _Aaron, Aaron, Aaron_.


End file.
